Kid Gloves
by cainesaw
Summary: Absent ramblings of a boyish mind prompted by a recommendation that Clyde Donovan should keep a journal. Short, inarticulate musings of a young soul.
1. Entry I

Dear diary,

My counselor told me to keep you because "puberty is hard on everyone and sometimes it feels like you have no one to talk to" so I suppose I should write out my thoughts here, huh?

Today I thought about growing up.

You notice you're growing up, our English teacher would say, when you don't look forward to getting up in the morning, when days are concise and short, when nothing is seen through tinted glasses and everything runs past you in a burst of light.

Okay so I may have added a few things, but that was the gist of it. So I sat in the back row for a good half an hour pondering why I was growing up. It would be okay, Kevin would assure, it was natural. But I didn't wanna be natural, I didn't spend days and weeks watching sci-fi movies to be natural. Fuck natural.

But April wasn't green anymore and days weren't long and we didn't go out to play anymore because we had better things to do. And the most important quality a human being could have was a huge dick.

I never really measured mine, I thought it was stupid. Or maybe I was "running away from my insecurities" or some other bullshit Craig would say during lunch through mouthfuls of gross cafeteria pizza.

"Clyde," the voice said. No, fuck, not the voice, the person. The person said, "the class is over, we're leaving," it was Craig, apathetic and probably hungry. Our schedule was fucked up like that, we got home early enough not to be hungry during lunch break, but we'd die by the end of 6th period.

On Fridays, including today, since it was in fact Friday, 6th period was English class, where no subject is taught, per se, but much learning occurs. The tales are endless and could not be told in a lifetime.

And I shuffled out of the classroom, past girls deciding where they're gonna go at 11PM to disappoint their parents, boys talking about god knows what and a few kids discussing the molecular theory of gases - I was jealous. I knew nothing about gases except that they spread as evenly as possible in a confined space.

Kevin suddenly appeared out of nowhere and I might have screeched a tad but it was alright.

"Come to my house," he said sternly, not even waiting for an answer, "I need to show you something."

When we were 13, Kevin took me to his house and showed me his KirkxSpock fanfiction and I thought it was the coolest, most contemporary shit I'd read in my life.

We turned 14 and he wrote Byronic heroes contemplating the meaning of life. When we started high school, he started writing poetry. In sophomore year, he wrote what he could, from journals to poems to essays and short, tear stained stories with sad, black haired protagonists plagued by thoughts of suicide and homicide.

Kevin was so far superior to how he wrote himself.

His house looked like a castle for those not bound by walls, his room was messy but it made sense, I knew where everything was because I practically lived in it but it all made so much sense.

He tossed poetry at me about dead trees and blue eyes and I shifted my gaze up along his leg up to his crotch and up his torso and I spent a good 20 seconds staring at the way his mouth moved as he recited slowly, softly so his parents wouldn't hear.

There was no need to be so quiet, we were loud sometimes and no one heard. I assumed it was to assure himself. Maybe he was shy. He sat next to me on his bed (with panda covers) and I absentmindedly put my hand over his. I guess that must have thrown him off because he stopped reading. Had I ruined the entire poem?

I stayed the night. He stole wine from his parents and we got drunk and he leaned up extra close and whispered in my ear: "I love you," and I didn't know what to say and I really had to cough so I did and he probably took offense so I stumbled over apologies and he hugged me.

Our English teacher said growing up was when street lights dimmed and the night sky seemed like a savior. And April wasn't green and February was long and we didn't know what we were fighting for. And I never wanted to be lost in the oblivion of adulthood.


	2. Entry II

Dear diary,

I spent yesterday laying in bed and thinking about how much I hate myself. Not much worth mentioning happened. I considered the fact that all my friends were going out until I saw a text I had gotten from Craig.

Craig Tucker was something else, I've known him all my life but he was an enigma. A sudden bolt of lightning at 2AM when you're stargazing instead of sleeping. He asked to come over. I was like, "Sure," and I felt proud of myself for providing shelter for my best friend and his dumb hamster thing.

"It's a fucking guinea pig," he'd say, "I swear to god you do this on purpose," and he'd be right.

The thing was he spent nights at my house only when his parents got into loud fights, he never could stand noise. So we'd watch movies and pretend everything was alright. He climbed in through my window and it felt like war.

It felt like war and we were in a bunker playing games you only play when you think you're going to die. Seriously, who the fuck plays Monopoly on a Saturday night?! I took it upon myself to carefully study his guinea pig. Stripe had died when we turned 13 and he got a new one a year later. Her name was Noam Chomsky and she looked like a fluffy snowball.

I intently stared as Noam Chomsky shuffled up Craig's jacket and perched herself at the edge of his shoulder, turned around and dug her head into Craig's neck, making him giggle like the girls in those dumb movies.

Sometimes he stayed at Kenny's house but Kenny's parents were friends with his parents so it was only good once in a while. Usually I was the sole protector of Craig Tucker's integrity and let him stay at my house whenever he wanted so he wouldn't have to ask anyone else. He was too stuck up for that.

I beat Craig Tucker at Monopoly and thought about how weird it is to know so many things but not know you… _know_ them… y'know? Like I was sure there was a huge universe in my head, like that thing that's so infinite it caves in on itself, but I didn't know how to channel it. I told Craig. He said Kevin was a bad influence and I was starting to talk like him. I told him to fuck himself gently with a chainsaw.

Craig went to take a shower and I gleefully pondered what a compliment it was to be compared to Kevin Stoley. Kevin, the glorious, lanky dork who seemed to be a pro at making any moment uncomfortable or sexual or both. And then I totally popped a boner and I thought 'Oh shit, Craig's gonna come back and see it,' and then I thought how dicks kinda looked like tiny sausages and just as I was in the middle of my sausage-dick-analogy Craig walked in.

Awkward eye-contact.

3

2

1

"Jesus Christ, Clyde," he breathed and I noticed he was wearing his dorky PJs with little hot dogs on them, "keep that shit to yourself," and I grabbed a pillow and put it in my lap like I was trying to suffocate my Charles Dickens.

I woke up the next morning with Noam Chomsky's ass on my face. Confused regarding the fluffy mass trying to kill me, I gasped and inhaled some of her guinea pig hair before grabbing her, turning her towards me and looking her dead in the eye.

"You little shit," I whispered to it, all Darth Vader like, "I'm onto you," but then I placed her onto Craig's sleeping self because he'd kill me otherwise.  
You could say he spent 40% of all nights ever at my house, and the other 60% at his house texting me about how much his parents suck. I'd reply with some deep emotional brohood comment to make him feel better. What are you even supposed to say when your best friend's parents are dick-knobs?

I went back to staring at the ceiling and thinking about how much I hate myself. It felt like coming home after a long trip. It was always there.


End file.
